The first terrorist was within 150 yards and a sure mark from Micah’s semi-prone position. He shifted to contemplate the other terrorist, still standing on the boulder. That man was every bit of 350 yards away, making for a chancy shot for most lever action deer rifles and very much so for an iron-sighted .30/30.
From this slightly different vantage point, Micah could see something else too. It was a sliver of blue cloth on the other side of the boulder where the second terrorist was standing, the very same shade of blue as the t-shirt worn by the Hezbollah leader he had shot at before. As he watched, the sliver of blue disappeared behind the rock.
So Blue Shirt, their leader, was still alive. Now the mime–like argument between the two others became clearer. Blue Shirt was most probably telling the other terrorist accompanying him to have the first gunman advance on the nearby building, while he and the second terrorist stayed pat to provide any needed cover fire. However, the first terrorist was more than a little hesitant to walk out into that open ground.
For Micah that realization settled the decision for the next round nestled in the Marlin’s chamber. Blue Shirt was still able to give orders, but apparently could not get around too well. Due to his wounded condition he had to have someone to relay his orders for him. As long as he stayed where he was, Blue Shirt was safe behind that large rock. Yet if Micah could remove the Hezbollah leader’s ability to transmit those orders, his command and control role was useless.
Taking care to not let the polished blue barrel of his Marlin reflect any sunlight, Micah stealthily slung up the rifle and wiggled ever so slightly to his right to get the best firing position. He grunted in spite of himself, the protesting ribs sending a clear message that they did not like the contortions that he was putting them through. He picked up the front sight of the rifle inside the rear aperture and paused to check the airstrip’s orange wind sock for any needed change in windage. The sock hung limp and still.
Micah measured the distance in his mind once more, still coming up with his target being a full 350 yards away. He had to be absolutely sure of everything about this shot to connect with the Shi’a Muslim standing on the boulder. At this range, the trajectory of the .30/30’s flat nose bullet was much akin to that of a tossed grapefruit. The trooper thumbed the Marlin’s hammer to full cock as he took in a full breath, let it halfway out and put the tip of the front sight exactly a foot and a half over the second terrorist’s head. Gently, ever so gently, he began squeezing the trigger.
The second Hezbollah gunman was starting to get the upper hand over the first one in their frenzied arm waving dispute. The first terrorist, cowed by the continual prodding, had moved ever so cautiously into the fringe of the open area when Micah’s .30/30 went off. The triumphant second gunman, still waving his hesitant comrade on, lurched a bit forward as the bullet impacted his chest. He toppled from the face of the rock, landing hard on the sloping ground below him. The Arab’s body slid a bit on impact but did not move again.
All of this was happening out of the corner of Micah’s right eye, as he fought against the Marlin’s recoil and shifted his aim to where the first terrorist had been standing. The man was no longer there. The highway patrolman saw movement among the low hanging branches and surrounding undergrowth where the Lebanese terrorist had run back through the brush line. Micah rose up on one knee and levered three more quick rounds to keep the fleeing gunman in high gear.
It was past time for the trooper to vacate, too. The four rounds he had fired were more than enough to give away his own position. Micah half turned and slid from the lip of the draw, making his way down the steep incline and back into the bed of the meandering cut itself. From there the law officer began working his way west back up the washout, and to the general vicinity where he had been before.
Stopping briefly he cupped his left hand to his ear, straining with everything inside of him to listen. He heard nothing. No yelling, no muttering, nor any sound of anything to do with any other man or the weapon he might possess. An eerie stillness had settled in, as if the last four rounds had never been fired. Only the cessation of activity on the part of the land’s natural inhabitants revealed that something deadly had just occurred.
Micah’s mind raced at the onslaught of options and probabilities. The first gunman had not retreated back into the brush line, he had fled as fast as his feet could carry him. Once there he had made no attempt to turn to either side and try to return fire. He was in a panic, and panic kept one from thinking of what they should be doing next. More so, there was no return fire from the area where Blue Shirt had been, which meant his injuries did not allow him to do so or that he had nothing to return fire with. Either that, or Blue Shirt had no idea where the bullet that killed his companion came from.
Any of these possibilities put Micah in a stronger position. He had narrowed the odds down from four armed assailants to two dead, one wounded, and one who was not thinking clearly. The thought gave him confidence. However, at the same time he tempered that rising level of certitude with the knowledge that he could well be only one bullet away from catastrophe himself. This deal was not even close to being over and he was running out of time.
Micah began picking his way up the steep shouldered draw again, looking for a protected spot where he could get a little respite and a bit of reloading done. Another fifty yards and he found what he needed, a depression in the north face that would protect him from observation either up or down the dry wash.
Putting his back to the dirt wall, he flattened out against it and tried to reach inside his right front trouser pocket for some fresh .30/30 cartridges. But all of the walking, shuffling and crawling had caused the tightly-cut uniform trousers to settle down low on Micah’s waist. He simply could not get his raw and swollen right hand into the cramped pocket and his fingers around the loose riding ammunition.
Begrudgingly, he propped the Marlin rifle against the arroyo wall and took a step away. Clasping the front of the Sam Brown belt with his left hand, he pulled both it and the trousers up as he reached inside the offending pocket with his right. Micah had just touched the brass casings when he heard someone at the top the draw and behind, closing in fast.
The trooper hastily brought his hand out of the pocket and stepped to the rear, freezing with his back pressed again into the embankment. His right hand had gone automatically to his side, fingers resting lightly on the butt of his issued Model 28 revolver. He cut his eyes longingly to the resting Marlin, but the rifle might as well been a hundred miles away.
The sounds of the unexpected interloper running through the brush stopped. Evidently, whoever it was could now see the unanticipated gulch before them and was figuring on what to do next. Micah found himself momentarily squeezing his eyes shut, focusing his remaining senses to concentrate on the unknown from behind and above. Then he heard it, the sound of a twig brushing up against clothing as whoever it was moved nearer. They were now so close that Micah could literally feel them in the small of his back.
Micah studied the ground around him, searching for the slightest shadow. But it was late October and any human silhouette created by the sun would be to his rear, not the front. He then gauged the rough ground at the bottom of the cut closely, all the way to the opposite wall of the arroyo. If he decided to move, it would have to be fast and he needed the certainty of firm footing.
The trooper’s heart was pounding in his chest, and the accompanying adrenaline coursed through his veins like a raging flood crashing through a narrow mountain canyon. The man was so close that none of Micah’s five normal senses had him located so exactly as that unnamed sixth sense, the one perfected over eons of man being both hunter and hunted. That primeval instinct for self-preservation was screaming that at any moment, the man above would look over the edge and see Micah below.
It was now or never.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The battered highway patrolman propelled himself away from the vertical face, his right thumb busting the ret
ention snap on the DPS regulation holster. He palmed the .357 Magnum, turning as he did so. Micah looked up and saw the Hezbollah gunman who had fled through the brush just seconds before looming over him, holding his weapon muzzle high and framed by the perfectly blue sky.
The Lebanese was leaning forward, slightly off balance, trying to look into the small gorge beneath him. The lawman continued to draw, forcing himself to be as smooth as possible with his bruised and swollen right hand. The Hezbollah terrorist, startled at first, recovered rapidly and began to bring the muzzle of the AK down and on to the trooper.
Micah’s left hand met his right and both enveloped the black Pachmayr grip of the revolver, locking it into a vise like grip. Forcing himself to take another fraction of a second, the trooper picked up the front sight and centered it squarely on the shooter’s chest. The AK muzzle continued to swing down while the hammer of the Smith & Wesson started back as if it had a life of its own. The Model 28 roared and dust kicked up on the front of the Arab’s khaki shirt, slightly off the second button from the top.
But the AK muzzle continued its arc, unfettered by the blast of the magnum and still seeking its own target to engage in return. Methodically, Micah sidestepped to the right as the hammer of the S&W came back again. He had trained for decades with the big double action revolver, and had carried it from the time of recruit school. It was like a part of him, and everything he was doing now he had practiced untold times before.
The magnum blasted again, and another puff of dust kicked up on the terrorist’s shirt. His rhythm now set, Micah took one more step to the side as he fought the front sight back into line, and triggered another round. He was rewarded by a third impact on the man’s chest, even as the flash hider of the assault rifle continued bearing down on him.
Awkwardly, the AK’s muzzle swept past the Texan, now pointing straight down. Micah was looking directly into the man’s eyes and saw the light had gone out of them. The Hezbollah terrorist tottered forward and fell in a lifeless heap at Micah’s feet. The man twitched once and lay still, and the ground around him turned into a deep, rich color of red.
The highway patrolman reached down with his left hand and picked up the dropped AK, still clutching the magnum in his right. Glancing quickly up and down the draw, he moved back to where he had been before, his back locked against the wall of the arroyo. Checking the Kalashnikov, he flipped the safety on and placed it to the side. Then he picked up his own rifle and resumed the interrupted reloading.
Micah had finished with the Marlin and was trying to reload the Smith & Wesson when it started. At first there was only a slight tremor in his right fingers, and then both of his hands started shaking. They shook so badly that it was almost impossible to pull the cartridges from his belt slide and put them in the chambers of the revolver.
One round from his fumbling fingers fell to the sandy ground, followed by another. He thought of the younger troops in his area who were now carrying speed loaders, and promised himself that he would get a pair for his own duty belt; the bulky, untraditional appearance be damned.
Finally getting the Smith & Wesson reloaded, he shoved it back into the holster and reset the snap. Squatting down, the trooper picked up the dropped .357 cartridges and reinserted them in the loops of his belt slide. He had gone through the shakes before, but not since the Da Krong Valley in Vietnam. They were already starting to subside as they had done all those many years ago. At the time, he had hoped he would never experience that sort of sensation again.
Yet here he was. Fear, exhaustion and raw adrenaline made for inexplicable human body responses, and Micah’s body was running on nothing but a straight mixture of all three.
After getting control of himself again and formulating the next move in his head, Micah moved away from the embankment and to the body of the dead terrorist. He began patting the corpse down, looking for anything of use but especially for a key fitting the ignition of that Chevrolet Suburban. It was a scant chance, and like most scant chances Micah came up with nothing.
His thoughts turned again to Blue Shirt behind that large rock. As the evident leader of this Hezbollah group, Blue Shirt was the most likely to have that ignition key. Thinking of what must be done to confirm that and the risk involved, the highway patrolman sighed deeply. He straightened up, checked his gear, and began moving up the draw once more.
Blue Shirt was the last remaining part of his getting out of here, and needed to be located and dealt with. Also, the Shi’a Lebanese had to have the keys to that Suburban and Micah knew that he was pulling negative numbers in the minutes needed to stop the Raider.
Going up another two hundred yards or so, the Texas lawman left the main draw and entered one of the numerous small fingers leading off to the northwest. Carefully selecting a proper observation spot from cover, Micah moved on cat’s feet to that location and scrutinized the area where Blue Shirt had last been seen.
From his new vantage point he could see the dead terrorist lying at the foot of the boulder, sunlight reflecting off the man’s dropped AK47. More surprisingly, and far more importantly, he could see Blue Shirt in a semi-sitting position, back propped up against the large rock. Micah raised the .30/30, running his left arm through the rifle sling again. But something stopped him and he took the Marlin out of his shoulder for a second look. Blue Shirt was not moving, and that was not the sort of position any man would take to fight from or try to hide in.
Micah raised up slightly to get a better view, his own features blending with the shade from a large live oak tree branching out overhead. No weapon could be seen anywhere around other than the dropped AK in front of the boulder. There was still no sign of any movement from Blue Shirt himself. The former Marine found himself wishing for those binoculars again, or anything else that would help him observe the immobile Hezbollah leader in greater detail.
But if he was going to get a better look, he was going to have to get a lot closer. Skirting the back of the live oak and the brush around it, Micah picked his way through the undergrowth, pausing every now and then to make certain that Blue Shirt had not changed position. Crisscrossing the terrain between them, the Texan found a spot in the road’s right-of-way where he could cross unseen from the boulder’s location. As he prepared to do so, he doublechecked the dead Lebanese who had been carrying the SVD still lying nearby, as was the scoped rifle. Neither had moved from where they first fell.
Shaking off the lingering pang of guilt for having taken any human life, Micah reset his mind to what he was doing next. He peered searchingly around his position before exposing himself, and crossed the road at a rapid pace to more concealment. From there he began circling, continuing to pause at favorable spots to see if Blue Shirt was still there. He was. Soon enough, Micah had come up on the far side of the unmoving terrorist and was scant yards away.
From there it was plainly evident why Blue Shirt had not moved. A large part of his right shoulder, torso and right leg was soaked in blood. Looking closer Micah could see the large, gaping wound torn through muscle and bone by the flat-nosed .30 caliber bullet.
The passing chunk of lead had turned just about everything in the man’s right shoulder into a grisly mixture of shattered bone fragments, gristle and pulp. The Arab’s shoulder was beyond useless, its only present worth an oozing testament of probable finality for someone who was perilously close to dying.
The terrorist’s dark eyes shifted about from time to time, slightly out of focus and radiating with agony as well as an attendant deepening shock. His breathing came in uneven gasps and lines of pain crossed his pasty face that mixed with a disoriented expression, all of which combined to give the full definition of a badly injured man. Micah had to give an inner nod to Blue Shirt, most men would not have had the grit to make it this far. The highway patrolman moved in with the Marlin at the ready, making certain that both of Blue Shirt’s hands remained empty and in plain view.
The half-closed eyes of the terrorist continued to wander about aimless
ly, a process of an oncoming delirium more than any real sign of alertness. But they opened wide and regained their focus at the distinct sound of the hammer of a Marlin .30-30 coming to full cock. The Hezbollah leader rolled his head slightly to the right, and looked down the gaping muzzle of the same rifle that had ruined his shoulder and killed his men. The hands holding the rifle were rock steady, and the eyes which met his were cold and hard.
“Don’t move a muscle, Mohammed,” Micah growled.
The Hezbollah Lebanese did not understand English but he did understand the obvious warning in the words. More so, even through his all-encompassing clouds of agony, he understood those two cold, hard eyes.
“I ought to kill you right where you sit” the trooper said. “But murdering someone with that kind of hole would bother me some, and I’m still wearing a badge. It’s just not our way.” Micah eased up near the man’s feet, his rifle still aimed squarely in Blue Shirt’s face. “I guess you wouldn’t understand that, would you?”
The Texan scrutinized the shoulder again, and lowered the hammer slowly on the lever action Marlin. “Then again, I might be just wasting another bullet. That first one is liable to get the job done all by itself.” The highway patrolman paused. “Here, let me take a fast look. You’re probably worth more alive than dead to someone else, anyways.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Yahla al-Qassam leaned back slightly in the co-pilot’s seat, trying to relax as much as his excitement and the demands of The Uvalde Raider would allow. It was as if the infernal machine had a mind of its own, and was protesting in every way it knew how against those who now controlled it. Whoever had said the B-17 Flying Fortress was an easy plane to fly had never flown one, or was a fairly remarkable liar.
The Uvalde Raider: A Templar Family Novel: Book One Page 19